Cannot Fix
by gloriousanon
Summary: While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU-ish.
1. Chapter 1

**Cannot Fix.**

While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU. Not sure how many more chapters there will be. It all depends on how the story moves along and how I feel. Not so subtle hint: reviews spur my desire to write.

TW: rape.

* * *

_Where are you, you bastard. _

Natasha slinked down the catwalk and eyed the enormous pipes surrounding her. It was dark, and hot, and wet. It made her suit squeeze and rub uncomfortably as she walked. A tremor betrayed her legs, adrenaline still shooting through her nervous limbs from facing the Hulk. She forced herself to push his furious image from her mind, lest she stop focusing on her mission and compromise herself _again_. She knew Clint was near - she could feel the slight pull in her body, seeking its mate. But _where_...

She knew about a millisecond too late that she should have ducked, but it happened just a touch too quickly - Clint was suddenly _there_, and punching her in the face. It was something she could handle, and the relief of seeing him alive numbed some of the pain as she moved to immobilize him.

"Clint!"

She grunted and grit her teeth through their struggle to overpower each other. Clint was grabbing her hair by the fistful, a move he would never normally pull. Not like this. "Clint, what the fuck." She was nearly breathless at the end of her sentence, Clint's fists leaving her hair and sinking into her belly. She keeled over and landed hard on her palms and knees. She hissed as they slammed down on metal grating. Clint pulled his boot up faster than she thought possible, pain exploding again in her stomach. She landed flat this time. Alarms went off in her brain, screaming at her to _get the fuck up Romanoff! GET UP_ even though the pain was throbbing and she couldn't seem to catch her breath and Clint was grabbing her roughly by the back of the neck and -

"_Clint_!"

"Why do you gotta fight back, Nat?" Clint's voice was low and rough as gravel. Irritation flared up through her as he spoke her nickname. _This_ Clint didn't know 'Nat'. _This_ Clint had no right to be tugging at her outfit like that, and she jerked an elbow behind her. It connected with his shoulder, and he only grunted and fisted her hair again. "Stop it," he growled. Natasha took this as a challenge and flailed her limbs about, bucking her body up in an effort to - well - to deter him, she supposed. It wasn't working. It only seemed to agitate him, and he slammed her face down on the grate. Her cheekbone met with an explosion of sharp pain. It rang so loudly in her brain that she couldn't yet feel the bruising and cutting on her lips, or the bone in her brow sharing the same fate as her cheek. She could only focus on the white-hot surge of agony each time he brought her down against the metal.

Natasha bit back a sob as he pushed her onto her back. He tore the zipper down her suit so recklessly that the damned thing _twisted off_ in his fingers. She watched in numb horror as he tossed it aside, and the intent in his eyes was enough to bring a fresh wave of adrenaline. It throbbed hotly in her face and weary limbs, and she brought her fist into Clint's nose. He cursed and clutched his face. She pounced away from him like an animal. She felt a flutter of relief as she escaped his grasp, but it was followed by dread. The dread ate her entire being and left her feeling strangely hollow. She wouldn't - _couldn't _- let herself dwell on what he was trying to do - and yet she couldn't stop thinking of her broken zipper, and the way he gripped her neck.

She risked a glance over her shoulder and caught Clint's glare dead-on. His eyes were striking. They were way too bright, but she couldn't focus on that, either. She turned her head and ignored every ache and throb she felt, abandoned all trains of thought. All there was was running from Clint. Finding somewhere she could get the advantage on him.

When she felt his fingers sink into her shoulder, her heart stopped. He spun her around to smirk at her before shoving her over the railing. She gracelessly slipped over and grabbed for something to hold onto, but her fingers grasped thin air. The fall was short, and the landing hard. She allowed herself to cry out as her ass hit the cement floor hard enough to bounce her hips up. "Oh god," she whispered to herself. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck..."

Clint landed only a moment later beside her. He wasted no time in crawling over her and holding her arms above her head. "Clint, _don't_," she pleaded. "This isn't you. This isn't you." He ignored her and she tried to hold it together. She was exhausted, and for once, _afraid_. She could get herself out of almost any situation. But now? Now there was no con, no creative or sneaky move she could make. Sometimes there was just somebody stronger, and Clint definitely was. He had the upper hand. _She was failing him_. And she was failing herself.

She bit back a sob as he continued ripping her uniform. She tried struggling one last time when he unbuckled his belt, but it was pointless. He backhanded her. The way her skull bounced against the cement put stars behind her eyes.

"Nat. Nat, look at me."

She did. She glared at him, gritting her teeth. She didn't look away when he pushed himself inside of her. The sheer pain was astounding. He was unnecessarily rough, and mean, and left bite marks on her shoulders. Each time his hips slammed forward, she held her breath. He was tearing her. She couldn't help but think about how something they both enjoyed so much could be so _horrible_. Natasha struggled to stay in the present. Her mind tried to retreat into nothingness, like she always did when being tortured. But this was beyond torture. She would gladly lay herself out for beatings, whippings, any variety of the shit she'd gone through, if she could stop this.

Biting her insides of her sore lips brought enough fresh pain to make her focus on not crying. She refused to cry, or scream, even though Clint's force was hot and sharp as knives.

When Clint finished, he grunted. Natasha felt a wave of nausea as she caught a glimpse of Clint's cock before he pulled his pants back around his hips. There was blood, and a lot of it. She twisted her body around and dry heaved over the floor. Clint sat on his heels and watched her struggle to stand, smirking. She leaned against the wall and shook, bringing herself to her feet.

"How was it for you?" he laughed. Before she could process it, her leg was moving and the steel-toe of her boot crashed into Clint's jaw. He flew backwards and lay dazed on the floor. She froze.

He groaned and slowly rolled his head around to gaze up at her. "N...Natasha?" His eyes looked dimmer. He looked confused at first, and then vaguely horrified.

She slammed her boot into his temple.

Her fingers shook as she pressed the bud in her ear. She stammered out her location and that Barton was alive and in custody, and to send help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cannot Fix.**

While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU. Not sure how many more chapters there will be. It all depends on how the story moves along and how I feel. Not so subtle hint: reviews spur my desire to write.

TW: talk of rape. This chapter's got touches of angst.

Another not so subtle hint: I've got around 7 followers and 1 review for this story. On my other newer fic, **My Own Bed**, I received five favorites and _zero_ reviews. I really, really appreciate that you guys like my stuff, but it's quite hard to stay motivated without any feedback whatsoever.

* * *

There wasn't any fucking time.

There wasn't time to dwell on Clint, there wasn't any time to visit medical, and there was barely any time to slip into a fresh uniform (but she _had_ to). Her body ached and her face throbbed, but she tucked the pain somewhere else, filed away for later, and moved quickly to Clint's holding room. She hesitated before the door for only a second before shaking her head and going inside.

Clint was writhing against his restraints. She hovered beside the door and successfully fought the urge to turn around and leave. She needed to see that he came down from whatever spell Loki had him under. So she waited patiently by him and tried her best to soothe him. It was hard to touch him, so she didn't. Her fingers stopped midair, trembling, causing her stomach to clench, so she rested them in her lap instead. She absolutely did not acknowledge that just touching her own thighs made her skin crawl.

"Oh my god..."

"Just hold on, Clint. It's almost over."

Clint's face was flushed and slicked with sweat. The veins in his arms looked angrily back at her as she studied his tense form.

"_Nat_," he moaned. She had to stop herself from hissing _don't call me that_. He looked miserable. She murmured a string of mostly meaningless comforts, guiding him slowly back to her. After several minutes, his muscles started to relax. His shirt was soaked. Natasha's eyes flicked to the door longingly, but she ignored the lure. "You're back now," she soothed. "It's... it's okay."

"It's not. It's _not_ okay."

"You weren't under your own control."

"How many people?"

"H-How many..."

".. people. How many people did I hurt?"

Natasha reeled from the question. _He didn't remember. _He didn't even fucking remember. In a huge way, this was a good thing. She would never want to put Clint through the pain and awkwardness of the situation they were in; it gave her a chance to forget about it and resume life as normal. It gave her relief. _Relief_. She thought weakly that relief should feel different, shouldn't make her stomach knot up, or her palms sweat. In the event that she _couldn't_ deal with it, then what in the fuck was she supposed to do? She couldn't just _tell_ someone -

"Natasha, how many people?" Clint's tone was sharp and commanding. She shook her head and looked at him squarely in the eye. "No," she murmured. "You're not doing that. _We're_ not doing that."

Clint let his head fall back in resignation. Natasha forced herself to stay in place. She trained her eyes on the floor and tried to focus on anything at all. Her thoughts floated and scattered like smoke, slipping through her fingers. She desperately wanted to march out of the room and find a bed, a couch, even comfortable carpeting, and go to sleep.

"What happened to your face?"

She noticed the throbbing ache in her mouth and brow now that he's brought it up. "Just... work."

" 'Just work'?" When she didn't respond, he shifted in his seat. "Did I do that to you?"

After a beat, Natasha smirked and rose to tend to his restraints. "Nothing you haven't done before, right?"

"I don't know, Nat." His voice was only a hair lighter than it usually was, and in that difference she could hear his worry and shame. He rubbed his chafed wrists and watched her. "Was it?"

She couldn't find the strength to answer.

* * *

She needed stitches.

Lots of stitches.

Natasha stood among the other Avengers, all of them battle-weary. Loki sprawled on the floor before them, having the nerve to ask Tony for a drink. She cut a look at Tony, but he only looked back at the villain with his trademark smirk, amused. "Let's wrap it up, guys?" she urged the group. Steve and Thor snapped into action and yanked Loki up by his arms. The god cried out as Steve was purposely reckless with his dislocated shoulder. The Hulk grinned in satisfaction.

"Ah, Natasha Romanoff," Loki sang. "Or shall I call you _Nat_?"

"You shouldn't speak to me at all," Natasha seethed.

Loki pointedly ignored her request. "What happened to your fair features, my little spider? Was it the beast?" Loki licked his lips. His eyes gleamed. "Or was it another monster? Perhaps somebody you know more _intimately_?"

The room fell to a hush as Natasha cocked her fist back and punched Loki in the mouth. He groaned and then laughed, blood staining his teeth. It dripped thickly down his lips. His laughter sent a white thrill of adrenaline through her veins, and it seemed for a moment that there was nothing in the room but her and Loki. Her, and Loki, and her fists. His bloody mouth. Her boot in his groin. She snapped out of it when Clint pulled her back and wrapped his powerful arms around hers. She struggled briefly and became aware of Loki's deranged, sputtering laughter and everyone's eyes on her. "Nat," Clint whispered, "are you okay?"

Loki still grinned up at her, even as blood continued to flow from his ugly mouth, and his eye began to swell up. "I'm fine," she insisted. Within Clint's grasp she felt a weird, suffocating sense of dread. "Let me go, Clint."

After a moment he released her. She was relieved, especially when Steve and Thor dragged Loki away. She poked gingerly at her own injuries and grimaced. "I need to get sewn up. Stark? Take me to a doctor in this damn place?"

Before Tony could answer, Clint stepped forward. "I can take you. Let's go."

Natasha sighed impatiently. "It's okay," she snapped. "I can just do it myself." Clint and Tony shared a look, Tony shaking his head slightly as if to say, _she's all yours_ and walking away. Now Clint was focusing on her, with that confused and worried look, and it was putting her on edge. The anxiety coiled tightly in her belly and waited to explode into full-blown panic mode. She forced herself to soften. "Look, it's been a really rough day at work. I'm just going to get fixed up and go to bed. I'll see you later." She didn't wait for him to respond or turn her head when he sighed.

When Stark's on-site medical staff stitched and bandaged her face up, and prodded at her bad leg (they determined it to be nothing that rest couldn't help), she ignored the intermittent burn of pain between her legs. She determined that nothing could help that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Cannot Fix.**

While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU. Not sure how many chapters there will be.

Reviews are extremely appreciated - thank you to everyone that reviewed the first chapter, it was certainly encouraging! Apologies for the short chapter - it's been a while since an update and I felt that I should provide _something_. Promise to update again much sooner. Keep encouraging me.

TW: talk of rape, self harm.

* * *

Tony had changed the tower.

They all resided within it, in their own separate apartments. They had access to virtually any area of the tower. Aside from their ridiculously lavish living areas, there were gymnasiums, laboratories, and countless technological wonders. There were a million things to do.

At first, the distractions were a godsend. Natasha threw herself into rigorous training. When the guys went up to Tony's penthouse to have a drink, or a movie night, she excused herself to train. Clint almost always showed up. He tried sparring with her, or running, or shooting targets - but she turned him down. When she looked at his face, she felt her veins turn to ice. He looked as though he was losing sleep, too. He hung in doorways and pleaded her with his reddened eyes.

"Natasha, please. Tell me. Tell me what happened."

But all she could do was set her jaw and stare at him. She didn't have the heart to outright deny him, and she didn't have the strength to tell him. She let the responsibility rest with _him_, for him to notice how fucking _crazy_ she was being. Her body was a testament to it, the way she lost weight and her face sharpened, the way her lip and eyebrow scarred. She ate and slept little.

One night found her shivering in bed. The temperature was perfect; warm, even. But still she shook underneath the blankets. It had been three days of no sleep - or nearly so. She'd dozed off for an hour or two after a particularly rough training session. She had allowed Steve to spar with her. It felt remarkably good to be around another human being willingly.

It went well for a while, until Steve managed to pin her.

It was a normal part of training. She didn't _always_ end with the upper hand (though usually this was the case). When Steve pressed her into a mat on the floor, her mind went painfully white and she started moving to get away from him. When she could focus again, Steve was holding his nose. Blood streamed from his nostrils and leaked through his fingers.

"Holy _smokes_, Natasha. What in the hell?"

_Shit_. "I - fuck. Steve, I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't mean to."

Natasha moved toward Steve and swallowed her own pain back down into the pit of her belly. Steve let his nose bleed down his chin, dripping down his throat and onto the floor. She couldn't immediately recognize the look on his face as he stepped toward her. Her stomach flipped. "Steve?" Her voice wavered. She cursed it.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course I am, it was an _accident_, Jesus -"

"No." Steve reached out to take her hand, but faltered halfway and let his limb swing loosely at his side again. "I mean, are you _okay_. You don't sleep. You don't eat. All you do is train. And - and Clint..."

"I'm fine."

"_Tasha._"

She glared defiantly at Steve. "Everything is fine. I am fine. I'm just stressed."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Fire boiled up from Natasha's gut, consuming her, making her hands tremble. She balled them into fists and grit her teeth. "_No_. I don't want to fucking talk about it. Do you have _any idea_ how often Clint asks me? Do you? Do any of you realize that I can see you, all of you, staring at me like I'm a fucking freak, like I didn't just stand by all of you fighting off _fucking aliens_ and a _Norse god_? Nobody seems to have been affected. Don't you think maybe I just need some fucking time to collect myself, Steve?"

The super soldier stood silently before her. She shook and glared and tried to control her breathing before it sped up, and it brought along that ache in her throat, and the stinging in her eyes. She couldn't stand the sympathetic look on his face. No. No, not sympathy - pity. _God_.

"I care about you. _We_ care about you."

Natasha walked over to her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Thanks, Steve, but I'm fine."

She ignored his defeated sigh as she marched out.

She went back over the fight in her mind, now, as she lay in bed. Restless. Hurting. Aching. She could feel Clint all over again, and it pissed her off more than the fact that _it_ had happened at all. She fucked Clint regularly. They were all but actually dating, to be completely honest. Natasha loved very few things. She loved fighting. She loved good vodka. She loved sex, and Indian food, and the smell of coffee. She loved taking baths. She loved the night and slinking through it, the only witness being the moon.

She loved Clint.

And now, she didn't know how to find her way back to that.

So, instead, she rose out of bed and made her way to the luxurious bathroom. She switched on the shower to a near-scalding temperature and entered the spray, wincing as it blasted her skin. There was a compartment built into the tiled wall, and she pressed it gently to pop it open. A switchblade rested inside. Her apartment was littered with hidden weaponry, and she appreciated Tony for taking her interest in complete, psychotic safety into consideration when building her rooms.

There wasn't any hesitation. She sliced into her inner thighs and grit her teeth through the pain. It always somehow felt worse to be cut by a paper-thin, sharpened blade than a serrated one. Paper cuts. Self injury. Battle wounds. What were any of them? Bruises. Stitches. Rape. It was all to be expected in her line of work. Expected from the 'bad guys'. Clint _wasn't_ a bad guy.

For once, Natasha didn't know what to fucking do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cannot Fix.**

While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU. Not sure how many chapters there will be.

Thank you all so much for the reviews so far. I'm half sorry for the last chapter being so short and ultra-angsty. This wasn't meant to be a long fic, so worry not - your confrontation is on its way. Last Chapter.

* * *

The dreams were starting to change.

When she did catch some sleep - enough to dream at all, anyway - she usually dreamed of Clint. Those dreams were finally starting to subside. The air around her now felt fluid and physical, flowing around her in the dark void of her dreamscape. Loki stood before her. In an instant, she was collapsing on top of him, hand around his throat, screaming.

"Fucking bastard -"

She tore at his face with her nails. Ripped chunks of his hair out. Disassembled his armor, punching and slapping and elbowing and _beating_. And yet he wouldn't stop _laughing_ at her.

"So passionate! It's no wonder Barton couldn't keep his hands off of you."

"_Fuck you! Fucking_ -"

Natasha's voice gave up on forming words, and she screamed and howled as she destroyed Loki. She was elbow-deep inside of his body, ripping things out of him. Red, slippery things, organs she couldn't name at the moment. It made her feel better to see his body splayed open. It made her feel better to taste a lick of his blood on her lips, her face stained angry red.

And yet he wouldn't stop laughing. And jabbing. Mocking her and what Clint did, what _he made Clint do_, it was _his_ fault.

"Why the fuck aren't you dying!" Natasha sobbed in frustration, her arms tiring. Her chest hitched and heaved as she tried to catch her breath and stop crying. Loki grinned. His eyes were blue as Clint's were. Bluer, even, shining too brightly. She shielded her eyes from them and stumbled backward, away from the glare. "This is my dream," she cried. "This is _mine_. I killed you. I -"

Loki snapped her chin up between his fingers. "Did I not promise you? Did I not tell you that I would have Barton destroy you? Slowly? _Intimately?_"

..._in every way you fear._ What she feared was losing Clint. What she feared was losing him, and not ever having anyone else like him. Because there _wasn't_ anyone else like him. He was all she had, when it came down to it. And now, she couldn't even be in the same room as him.

The dream ended.

* * *

It was hard. Excruciatingly hard, actually. Somewhere within her were reserves of unshakeable patience, the ability to wipe her face clean of her emotions. The ability to think logically and rationally, to observe everything in a detached way so that she could quickly process any given situation. If she concentrated hard enough, she could find that open, white place inside of her to deposit those emotions for a while, to be pulled out when she saw fit. Mostly when she was in private. It was a gift, and her most valuable asset.

The carefully constructed mechanism inside of her that allowed her to do this had been broken. Smashed to a million pieces. But she found a shred of determination left behind, and did her best to nurture it. She needed it. She needed to build herself back into who she used to be, because a life without Clint was simply not an option.

It was hard.

There were little things she did to build up. Sparring with Steve _without_ having a complete meltdown was a start. She apologized, and he was too kind to press the issue, so he let it go. She put on a brave face.

It got easier the more she attempted contact with the other Avengers. For once in her life, she found solace in company. Nobody tried to ask her what was wrong, but she could see their curiosity. Tony wouldn't even jab at her about it, and although she found it odd, it made things easier. Until Clint pushed her a little in the opposite direction.

He didn't mean to. He came into her room one night, looking worse for wear. Natasha had gained some weight back, some color to her face. Enough to look human again. Clint wasn't quite there yet, and she pondered this as she scanned his pale face and loose shirt.

"Nat."

"Clint."

He moved forward cautiously, as if she'd disappear if he arrived too soon. They said nothing as he sat down, slowly, gently, the mattress on her side barely registering his movements. "Could... could we please talk?" he asked. She stared at him for what felt like an eternity before nodding once. He seemed to relax then, and she could see him warring between relief and fear. "Okay," he said quietly. "I'll wait as long as you need me to."

"Nothing happened." That's what she was going to say automatically, but as the first syllable left her lips, Clint shook his head.

"Sorry," she whispered, staring at the floor. His hand floated to her knee and he grasped it for half a second before she flinched. He snatched his hand away in horror. "Tasha - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just..."

"No, it's... I know. It's okay."

Another long silence stretched between them. Clint had patience much like hers - they needed to, for their profession. Clint could perch in any given spot for hours upon hours, silent and unmoving. It's what she admired about him most. He weathered through many of her moods with ease. Clint _would_ wait as long as he needed to. Clint would wait for her. Warmth flowed up through her belly, comforting and encouraging. _This_ was her Clint. She could do this.

"Okay," she breathed. "You, uh... I mean Loki... He..." Her heart was beating too hard in her chest. She could feel blood rushing to her cheeks, burning there. Her hands shook, so she sat on them. "He forced you on me."

Clint's hand darted over again, but he stopped midair and pulled it back to wipe his mouth instead. "Forced me...?

"We... he... I was taken advantage of." Her voice sounded weak and small in her own ears, barely loud enough to be heard. She chanced a look up at Clint and felt her heart stop as his face went white. She wished she would have kept her eyes on the floor, but now she couldn't look away. He looked as though he were in pain.

"You were raped." Her lips twitched, and he breathlessly added, "_I _raped you."

Anger surged through her body and she reached out for Clint's shoulder. Her body leaned toward his and she fixed her stare on him, made him look back at her. "_No_. You didn't... Loki did."

"But..."

"_It was Loki's fault._"

Clint sobbed as she watched. She wanted to hold him, or kiss him, but she couldn't will herself to move closer. A dull throb made her throat hurt, but the tears wouldn't come to relieve it. She felt numb, and hollow, and wishing she could disappear into Clint and merely live as a cell in his body, so that she could never be without him. And not have to deal with this.

But she wasn't a cell. She was a person, and she was hurting, and her lover and best friend was hurting, and she could feel phantom pain between her legs and in the threads of her facial scars.

In the first few days after the incident, she had fantasized obsessively of this day. The day her and Clint could be normal again. She imagined there would be tears, but that they would be her own. She would have a cleansing cry, and maybe Clint would cry too. And he would kiss her, and be tender with her, and help her forget what happened. But instead, she couldn't find the strength to be with Clint. She couldn't even cry.

Clint didn't leave. He made a makeshift bed beside hers, on the floor. Natasha protested it at first, but he insisted. So she watched him set up sofa cushions and blankets on the floor. He didn't remove anything but his belt and boots. It was then that she felt the first prickle of tears in her eyes, watching him slide underneath the blankets in all of his clothing for her. _Her _Clint.

When the lights were out, and she was allowing herself to relax, she felt Clint's hand crawl across the edge of the mattress. She found it with her own hand and he gave her a squeeze. "Natasha..."

His voice trailed off, but she could read the rest of his thoughts without him having to say it out loud. So she responded, "Clint..." and thought, _I love you too._

* * *

It was not my intention for this to end so sweetly. I won't apologize, because this is just the way Tasha and Clint dragged me in this specific story. It was meant to end tragically, but... well. Here we are. So, reviews are totally appreciated, thanks for listening. Half-assed apologies to anyone disappointed!


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